Page 106 of Playboy Pitcher
Willow licking trifle off my finger like it was her last meal.
Damn it, she’s everywhere, and I hate my body’s immediate reaction to it. I don’t care how irritated I am, my dick gives zero fucks about my bruised ego.
I don’t have to turn around to know she’s behind me. That sweet floral scent gives her away. “Ben, I know you had this special birthday surprise—”
“Yeah,” I snort, turning around and leaning against the counter. “I made you a birthday cake.” Grabbing a fork from a side drawer, I toss it at her while nodding toward the trash. “Knock yourself out.”
I wanted to lash out, but I should’ve known better. Instead of letting the fork clang to the floor, Willow catches it with the snap reflexes of a seasoned ballplayer. Everything inside me wants to tell her to fuck off and go away, but I don’t. I watch silently as she takes a few steps toward the trashcan and peers into it.
I know the moment she sees it. Letting out a sharp gasp, she steeples her fingers over her mouth.
Like a prayer.
Or a wish.
Right now,IwishI could crawl in there right along with it.
Willow’s hands fall from her face only to cross over her chest. I also wish she’d stop staring at it like it’s some goddamn masterpiece. It’s not. It’s a blob of multicolored shit.
“You baked me a cake?” she asks, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. I don’t answer because it’s a rhetorical question. “It’s purple.” Peering closer, she spreads her fingers, wrapping them around her arms in a protective hold. “And yellow, and red, and orange, and green.” She glances up for confirmation. Fucking hell, she’s going to make me say it.
“It’s a Skittles cake,” I say between clenched teeth. “It had candy on top too, but the candles melted them.”
“Oh, Ben…”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” I grumble. “So, I remembered you have a thing for those disgusting glucose bombs.” I shrug as if it’s nothing. As if the damn thing didn’t take me hours to make. “It probably tastes like shit anyway.”
“No one has ever made me a birthday cake.”
No, I’m not doing this.
Taking the fork out of her hand, I toss it in the sink and scrub a hand over my face. “Is there a reason you’re here, Willow? It’s after midnight, and I’m tired.”
Willow finally takes her eyes off that damn cake and looks up at me. Shit, she’s been crying. Telltale black streaks of mascara run from her red and puffy eyes all the way down her cheeks.
What the hell is going on?
“Jesus, is Emma okay?”
She offers an almost imperceptible nod before all but falling into me, pressing her palms and forehead against my chest. “I’m so sorry for all of this,” she says, choking back a fresh wave of tears. “It’s not my…” Sighing, she tightens her hold as if she’s trying to dig through my skin and crawl inside. “I never meant to hurt you. You have to believe that.”
Now she’s starting to scare me. Gently pushing her back, I cup her chin and tilt her head up. I want her eyes on me. Fuck the cake. Fuck the ruined night. Something has happened, and it’s tearing her apart. “Willow, what’s going on?”
As if my words flip a switch embedded deep inside her, the tears that have threatened to fall since she walked through the door tumble down her cheeks. “If someone you love with all your heart was about to be destroyed, what would you do?”
As I look at her, ripped apart and all but bleeding on my kitchen floor, I don’t hesitate. “I’d do everything in my power to not let that happen.”
“Even if it hurt other people you”—she closes her eyes, her face twisting, as if fighting something inside herself—“love too? Even if it made them hate you for choosing someone else’s future over theirs?” Taking a ragged breath, she slowly opens her eyes.
“What are you getting at?”
“Just answer the question, please.”
As I consider her question, the words start to take a different shape. I think about my father. I think about all the resentment and hate I’ve let built over the years. I think about all the acts I’ve condemned him for without a fair trial.
My father is ruthless in business, but his family has always come first. He gave up his dream of playing professional baseball to care for his dying mother. He didn’t think twice about becoming a single dad to a little girl with no place else to go. And even though I’ve never acknowledged it, I know every time the Storm plays the Yankees, the two tickets I’ve left at the box office every single game for four years are always claimed.
So maybe my dad did ask Roger for a favor. And maybe Roger pulled me from the draft to the majors because of it. But maybe it wasn’t done out of a lack of faith as much as…
